I drink, I smoke, I hop on buses and trains, I throw myself into mechanical and chemical rides hoping for a snapshot from all the blur. Sometimes I think you stole the capability of clarity from me. Although I should best remember that you were the one who brought that gift back after so many lost years. I wonder if all these trips, these death wishes, were just me finding my way back to our burned bridge, staring at this cliff, desiring to build from the ashes left scattered in this gaping mouth.
There was this one moment, however, a dragonfly bobbing up and down in the night air of this lone city (are cities ever not lonesome?), that I have to catch it by the tail and tie it down with the thin thread of words.
I remember her mouth, her hair in my hands, and her leg between my thighs. I remember exhaling the ashes stuck in my chest and in my head, as I simply tugged her face closer, after she softly asked me if I finally calmed down just by calling my name. I was crying–I was wailing. The blur was too much to bear and neither weed nor alcohol was stopping the whirlwind, wasn’t making me feel anything at all actually. (A woman is never too old for catalytic drama.)
The dim fluorescent light shone down on our stage of a bed, and I let the ghosts of the pay-per-hour theater watch my face unfold: my chin upon her shoulder, my gaping mouth, and my burning tears. She refused to be part of the audience. I don’t think she really saw me–in that manner, anyway. Besides, she was too busy wrapping herself around me as if it’s the only thing that was keeping me together. She didn’t understand one bit. She asked the why’s but these were merely paying lip service to expected questions from such displays. She didn’t understand one bit, but she understood that. That her moving lips can serve better with whispers of shhh shhh shhhh; the way they were grazing my ears was a lullaby on its own.